


Lost

by dessert_first



Category: due South
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dessert_first/pseuds/dessert_first
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amnesiac Mountie with broken long-term memory storage moves in with lovesick Polish cop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/gifts).



> Thanks so much to for asking for this story, which encouraged me to go back and finish it. Many thanks!

You ever had your absolute worst nightmare comes to life? Like all your stupid little insecurities come crawling out of the woodwork, ready to swarm all over you 'till you can't even see the light of fucking day?

That's what this was like. I wouldn't have wished it on my worst enemy. Hell, I wouldn't have wished it on _Vecchio_ , and that's a fact.

::

Stupid. I got the guy flowers but there wasn't a damn vase to put them in. After hassling all the staff I could find, one of the nurses finally took pity on me and handed me a plastic water jug, the kind they filled with ice chips and left by the hospital beds. I filled it at the water fountain, stuck the flowers in and headed back to Fraser's room. He was still out like a light, but the doctors said it was just sleep now, normal, and good for him. They'd stuck an IV drip in him, which I knew he'd hate, and he looked awful pale. There was a good-sized lump on his forehead, too. 

But sleeping there all peaceful like that, he looked like a fucking angel.

I put the jug of flowers on the little rolling table poised over the foot of his bed, so he'd see it first thing. A lock of his hair had fallen down out of its usual strict placement, so I smoothed it back, brushed a thumb across that eyebrow he was always fiddling with when he got nervous, and finally got up the nerve to lean in and press a kiss to his forehead.

We were gonna have to have another talk about backup and racing into places. My nerves just could not take this kind of thing. Felt like my heart had been racing freaking NASCAR laps ever since Fraser got hit. 

I felt the vibrations of my mobile going off in my pocket, so I headed out into the hall to answer.

"Hi Ray," Stella said. "How're you doing?"

"Hey, Stell." I scrubbed a hand through my hair. It was flat and probably looked ridiculous, plus I was all over stubble and I knew for a fact my eyes were bloodshot. But hey, she couldn't see me, could she? "I'm okay."

"Hmm," she said, noncommittal, and I knew she probably _could_ see the hair and the stubble and the bloodshot eyes, even over the phone. "Are you eating, Ray? You have to eat."

"Uh, yeah, I had some…" I thought back. I'd been here thirty-six hours already, and it was all starting to blur. Welsh and Frannie had gone home hours ago, but Welsh had ordered me eat something before they left. "I had some of those vending machine crackers. And, uh, some coffee."

"Ray. He's going to be all right. But _you_ won't if you keep this up. Go eat something, okay? Get some sleep."

"Yeah," I said, already thinking of the flowers again. Did I put the little packet of flower food in the water? Weren't you supposed to stick a penny in there, or some sugar, or something? What if Fraser woke up and the flowers were all wilted?

She sighed. "I've got to go, Ray. Call me if there's any news."

I said goodbye and walked back into Fraser's room, and nothing was the same after that.

::

Fraser was awake, sitting up in bed, looking at the flowers with a little smile on his face. Relief almost bowled me over, it came on so hard and sudden. I almost buckled there, in the doorway.

"Frase! You're awake!"

His wide blue eyes swung in my direction, and holy fuck, he was okay. I mean, everyone had _said_ he was gonna be okay, but seeing it… I was gonna have to go straight to Saint Mary's and light about eighty candles for this, and I hadn't voluntarily set foot in a church in years.

"You had us worried there, Benton-buddy. Just—just stay right there, okay? Do not move. I'm gonna go get a doctor."

"All right," he said, agreeable if a little vague. He looked at me curiously, then his gaze drifted back to the flowers. "Ah, before you go, I wonder if I could ask a favor?"

"Anything," I said fervently. "You name it, you got it."

"Have you seen my friend, Ray Vecchio?"

::

Amnesia, the doctors said. No shit, I said. Even after I showed Fraser my Vecchio badge and ID, it still took Thatcher, Turnbull and Welsh showing up and confirming my story before he'd even begin to buy it.

He was still looking at me all suspicious. He'd looked completely crestfallen when he'd realized I was the one who'd left him the flowers, not fucking Vecchio.

The gap in his memories went back to a few months before he'd left on his last vacation. As far as he was concerned, he'd been working on a case with Vecchio mark one, and then he was in a hospital and I showed up, doing my phenomenally bad Vecchio impression.

Look, it's not like I gave myself the job, okay? I know what I look like, and I know what Vecchio looks like, and I know it does not take a rocket scientist to figure out they maybe coulda picked someone a little closer to the mark to replace the guy. But I don't care. It got me a new job, a new life, a whole new me. And it got me Benton Fraser, RCMP.

Anyway, the doctors said Fraser's memory might come back eventually. All we had to do was hang on, keep trying to jog his memory. We hung around in Fraser's room for the rest of the night, me and Welsh telling Fraser about our cases together, Thatcher and Turnbull filling in details and dropping the occasional tale of hilarious Canadian high-jinks. Frannie and Elaine eventually came over to join in the fun. It was kind of like a party, really. And kind of like a wake. Thing was, I didn't know if it was for me or for the Fraser who used to know me. 

We stayed there until the nurses kicked us out, and Fraser fell asleep almost smiling at me.

::

Next day, I was over bright and early, with a bag of that all-natural jerky Fraser said kinda sorta almost but not really tasted something like pemmican. It's hell getting pemmican in Chicago.

Okay, so the guy'd blocked out every single memory he'd ever had about me. It wasn't like I was gonna take it personally. Memory's a tricky business, I knew that. And with a little patience, he'd get better. If anyone could beat this, the Mountie could.

"Morning, Frase," I said, walking into his room. "How're you doing today?"

"Good morning." He blinked up at me. "Have we met?"

::

Ante-retrograde amnesia, the doctors said. Fraser couldn't transfer his short-term memories into long-term storage after he fell asleep, they said. Every day would be starting all over again for him, they said.

Fuck you, I said. I went out into the parking lot, sat in the GTO, called Stella and cried like a fucking baby. 

Then I went back into the hospital, splashed some water on my face, and called Welsh and the Canadians again. It was early in the workday so they couldn't come over, but they all confirmed my story to Fraser over the phone. 

Eventually Fraser stopped looking at me like something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shiny Mountie boot. He kept frowning over at a corner of the room, muttering things about irrelevant stories, unhelpful advice, and parents who should mind their own business. That wasn't too much crazier than his normal shtick, though, so I pretended not to notice, like usual.

By lunchtime he could stand the sight of me without looking all hurt and wistful, and by dinner we were friends again. By the late show on the crappy hospital room TV, we were practically buddies.

::

The next morning, I came prepared. I'd stopped by a few places before heading to the hospital, so I had a letter from Frannie, some official papers from Welsh, and the whole wheat cranberry-orange scones Fraser liked from that little bakery in his old dive of a neighborhood.

Plus, I’d done some fast talking to the nurses the night before, so I had a secret weapon.

"Diefenbaker!" Fraser said, delighted. 

Dief leaped onto Fraser's bed and licked his face in the least dignified move I'd seen the mutt make since Fraser had been stuck in a pine box. Poor wolf must have been worried sick all this time.

"Okay," I said, brandishing the scones like the massive bribe they were. "So Thatcher's already called you?"

"She did, yes." Fraser looked up from scratching the blissed-out mutt's ears. "I must admit this is all a little disconcerting."

"For you and me both, buddy," I said, setting the scones on Fraser's nightstand.

He hesitated, squinted across the room for a moment, then looked into the bag. "My favorite!" he said.

"Yeah, I know. You get a craving for them every once in a while. Said they go real well with a cup of—"

"Bark tea," he finished thoughtfully. Straightening up against his pillows, he looked up at me. "This was very thoughtful, thank you. Would you like a scone…" Fraser hesitated for just a second. "…Ray?"

::

When I got there on Tuesday, Fraser was watching the little video of himself Turnbull had helped him make to save everyone having to take turns calling and explaining everything to him every morning. I hovered in the doorway, catching sight of his serious face projected on the television.

"And this is Ray," Fraser said onscreen, holding up a picture of me. "It's, ah, complicated, but he is temporarily replacing Ray. You can trust him. He comes by to see you every day." He started to put the picture away, then frowned. "Oh, but don't bring up the real Ray in front of him. It seems to upset him."

I turned away, back down the hall. Suddenly I couldn't see so good. Stumbling towards the water fountain, I bumped into a burly orderly, who glared at me. The guy looked about to say a few harsh words, but Sita, one of the day shift nurses, took him aside and spoke to him in a low voice. The orderly raised his eyebrows, nodded, and looked at me pityingly. Fuck.

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I gave the nurse a half-hearted smile and handed her the box of Darjeeling I'd brought for Fraser. "Thanks, Sita," I said. "Listen, could you see that he gets this? I, uh, I got some things I gotta do."

"Ray," she said kindly. "He'll be expecting you."

"Yeah, well." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "He won't remember if I don't show up." I could fuck up all I wanted. With Fraser, the slate was always wiped clean these days.

Sita didn't contradict me. For a second there, all I wanted was for her to contradict me. God, please, just tell me that this might be the day, this just might possibly be the day Fraser turned that corner, set that genius brain of his straight, and held on to his memories all the way through to tomorrow. That tomorrow would be the day he didn't look at me like some fucking stranger. 

She just stood here, small and round-faced, dark hair pulled back in a sensible pony tail, neat white cardigan on over her uniform. Her brown eyes were full of sympathy. "I'm due for a break," she finally said. "Come have some tea with me. We can bring some to your partner later."

My partner. God, this must suck for him. Every day was like he'd traveled forward in time to a life he didn't even recognize. All he wanted was to see his good friend Ray Vecchio. 

And all I had to offer him was me.

::

I slammed the suitcase Stella had lent Fraser shut with a flourish. "Greatness," I said triumphantly. "You may not remember this, buddy, but it has been a _long_ time to be hanging around this dump."

Fraser looked around the little hospital room, bemused. We'd packed most of it up or given it away to other patients, but here had been balloons, flowers, cards and ridiculous stuffed animals set on every available surface. Dief lounged on the bed, supervising as Fraser and I packed all the accumulated crap from the last few weeks into duffle bags.

"Are you sure you won't mind me coming home with you, Ray?" Fraser asked.

I smiled. "I just hope _you_ don't mind too much, pal. You better put something extra good in that video of yours to explain suddenly shacking up with a Polish flatfoot with experimental hair."

He smiled back. "I quite like your experimental hair. It's very…"

"Experimental?"

"It suits you."

"Yeah?" I brushed the blonde spikes self-consciously. "Thanks. Uh, you ready to go?"

He looked around the room once more, put the last of the stuffed animals into the bag to be given to the kids in the children's ward, and nodded. 

Amnesiac Mountie with broken long-term memory storage moves in with lovesick Polish cop. It would be The Odd Couple for the nineties. Get a good agent, we could put this shit on Broadway.

::

Fraser lasted about a day outside the hospital before he asked to be taken to the library. Libraries, actually. Plural. Universities and med schools in particular, but most any library would do. He'd spend hours buried in there, feverishly going over books on every aspect of the brain he could find, and he was mainlining thiamine and the rest of the B complex almost faster than he could buy it. If the doctors couldn't help him, he was determined to do it on his own. The plan was to adapt another part of his brain to do the job it was currently falling down on. Teaching his brain to do new tricks. If anyone could do it, Fraser could.

Trouble was, the doctors didn't seem all that convinced that anyone could do it.

::

About a week in, we had our routine down to a science. Fraser always insisted on giving me the bed, but I always countered that we'd decided to alternate nights and he'd had the couch the night before. Sometimes he narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously, but he went along with it.

So he slept in the bed, and left himself a note on the nightstand telling himself everything was okay, and he should watch the video waiting on the TV set I'd hooked up for him on my bedroom dresser. He updated the video every so often, using the camera the Vecchios had given him as a gift, and he had a diary to fill in the gaps.

It was no good for me to be around when he woke up; to him I'd just be some random stranger showing up out of nowhere. It was always disorienting—scary as hell, I bet, waking up in a strange bed someplace he'd never been, no memory of how he got there. And the news was pretty much all downhill from there. Dief slept in the room with him, so that helped, but there was always that moment of loss and grief when Fraser read his note, saw his video, skimmed his diary. Realized what had happened to him. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

Me, I'd putter around in the kitchen, still half-asleep from another rough night on the couch, trying to keep from being too nervous that this would be the day Fraser decided to ignore all the evidence he'd set out the night before and try to make a break from the crazy man holding him hostage and probably slipping drugs into his food. 

But it never was that day, somehow. He'd come out eventually, wary and stiffly courteous, his eyes red and his jaw tight. When he'd see me, he'd always freeze on the spot, just staring at me with wide eyes. He looked exactly like he had that first day he'd seen me in the bullpen, every damn time. "You must be… Ray," he'd say cautiously. 

"That's me," I'd say, friendly as I could make it, and offer him some breakfast.

He'd loosen up gradually, sorting through the enormous fuck-over the universe had given him, until determination to somehow _fix_ this thing took over.

We'd eat together, then I'd go off to work and he'd head to a library or dig through his books here, catch up on his notes to figure out what the hell he'd been trying to do, and then work some more. He was as driven about finding a cure as he'd always been when on a case. Afternoons, he'd go to the Consulate to work half-days, paperwork, mostly. Filing. The kind of work he could always do in his sleep. He had a system of notes there too, to keep up to date on new information, and Thatcher and Turnbull were surprisingly good about the whole thing.

::

Sometimes I'd catch a few seconds of his morning video, coming or going from the bathroom or the linen closet. I knew he changed them periodically, putting in new information. If he kept up with his diary every day, he could actually keep drawing new conclusions, as the evidence kept stacking up. He didn't remember new things on his own anymore, but he was still observant, and when it came to sorting through information, he was still a hell of a detective. Every day he had to piece together his own life, but where he started from could change, and that could get him someplace new altogether.

What I didn't realize was what that would mean for what he made of me.

"This is Ray," Fraser was saying onscreen a month into his stay with me, holding up a picture of the two of us at Huey's birthday party at the 2-7. "He's your friend."

Halfway to the bathroom, I froze on the spot. Fraser'd never said that before in any of his videos, not that I'd seen. He must have taken the picture from the living room. God, we looked so happy in that shot, him with his arm around me, me with the Stetson perched on my head—ever since that Christmas party after the mess with Warfield, Fraser'd let me wear the hat on special occasions. 

Rubbing a hand over my face, I headed back to the kitchen. I was almost done cooking Fraser's oatmeal before I realized I'd already made him a bowl not five minute ago.

::

"You're being ridiculous," Fraser was hissing when I walked by his desk. He'd set up a little workspace in my living room, full of notebooks and reference materials. But it didn't sound like he was digging through neuroscience right about now. "He _does not_ ," Fraser stressed, but he sounded uncertain about whatever it was. "We are just—yes, I know it's like a marriage, you've told me that already. Repeatedly? I don't believe it. Which pages?" He stopped, dug up his journal, and leafed through it rapidly. "Oh. I see. Well, that still doesn't make it true."

Diefenbaker woofed pointedly from his perch on the couch.

" _Et tu,_ Diefenbaker?" Fraser asked. He resolutely pulled out another tome on the adaptation of the visual cortex to process tactile images and scribbled furious notes.

::

The first time Fraser came to me at night, I almost fell off the couch. He'd gone off to bed, same as every other night, and I'd sacked out in the living room. It seemed I'd just lain down and closed my eyes, but I must have fallen asleep because next thing I knew, there was a hand in my hair, gentle fingers stroking through the strands. I think I must have smiled. Felt like I was dreaming.

 _"Ray,"_ Fraser whispered. 

I blinked up at him in the cool darkness. "Didja just wake up?" 

He shook his head. "I haven't gone to sleep yet. I don’t want to go to sleep yet, Ray."

Oh. I shifted a little, but not enough to dislodge his hand from my hair, just tuning my head enough to face him. "You try that sometimes, especially when you've found a good lead in your books. Want me to make you some coffee?"

Fraser didn’t answer for a moment, just kept carding his fingers through my hair, looking down at me with that inscrutable face, half-lit by the streetlights outside. "According to my journal, Inspector Thatcher, Turnbull and my—and Diefenbaker, I've been here two months. That's a long time to sleep on the couch, Ray. It can't be good for you."

I frowned. "I told you this morning, we switch every other night. I had it last night; I'm good."

"Ray, I _know_ you haven't slept in that room in a good long while."

That made me sit up, clutching at his hand. "You remember that?"

"No," he said, his mouth twisting for a moment. "But the room doesn’t smell like you. Why are you doing this, Ray?"

"C'mon, Fraser," I shrugged. "The couch isn't that bad."

"Not the couch. This. Me. I'm not—" he sighed, scratched his eyebrow, and it _hurt_ , it fucking hurt to see him like that, rock solid Mountie at a loss. "I'm not your friend anymore, Ray." And God, that was like a punch in the gut. For a second I couldn't even breathe, water closing in on me just like on the Henry Allen. Dimly, I felt him squeeze my hand, his tone conciliatory. "It's not that I don't want to be. But I'm not the man you knew. I might never be that man again."

I snatched my hand back. "No. No. You may not know me, but I know you, Benton Fraser, and that is exactly who you are."

He closed his eyes, looking pained. "Memories are what make a person. If I am to believe what everyone says, I lose Benton Fraser every day." Blue eyes opened, looked right at me. "I lose _you_ every day."

"Yeah, well, you get me back every day, too," I snapped. "Fraser, you can't—"

"I _feel_ like myself," he said, looking down at his hands. "I feel… normal. Yesterday I returned Mr. Mustafi's blender. I took Mrs. Gamez's children out for an early walk with Diefenbaker. I had breakfast, and made my bed, and went to work at the Consulate, and Ray picked me up in his Riviera and took me out to lunch. I had a grilled cheese sandwich, and Diefenbaker ate half my fries. I helped Ray solve a case, and I went home, and I read my father's journals, and I remember _everything_ , Ray. I _remember_."

"I know, Frase," I said, all the fight gone out of me. "I know you do."

And I knew, too, that I was just a stranger to him every day, but it was late and it was dark on a Friday night, and Fraser had come out here maybe looking for some company, so I dared to slide my hand back over and take hold of his. We sat there for a long time.

::

It got to be a habit, one I looked forward to, because this was the time of day when Fraser knew me, at the end of the day, at the end of whatever we'd gotten up to, both together and apart. Sometimes people would come over: Frannie, Welsh, Elaine, Stella, Huey and his wife, Dewey or Turnbull. Sometimes it was just Fraser and me, but in any case, I wasn't a stranger anymore, by that time of the day, and that was just... that was such a fucking relief. He even seemed softer in the mornings, somehow, after nights like that. When he looked me, seeing me for the first time, that guy he'd mentioned in his daily video to himself, that guy in the journal, that guy in the photo album--there was less of that absolutely chilling _who-the-fuck-are-you_ in his gaze and more of a slightly vague _hey-don't-I-know-you-from-someplace-nice?_ turning up the corners of his mouth.

Which seemed like progress, which was sad as fuck, but you know, Stella would be the first to tell you I am not really your go-to guy when it comes to dignity.

::

It was one of those group dinners, Mrs. Vecchio having comandeered the kitchen, convinced of the healing powers of pasta--

"There may actually be something to her theory, Ray," Fraser had pointed out. "The brain requires glucose as its fuel, and carbohydrates such as pasta are the ideal source to power its functions--" 

"Plus it's delicious," Frannie pitched in, popping an olive into her mouth and giving a meaningful nod in her mother's direction. 

"Yes, of course, it's quite delicious!" Fraser added hastily, and Mrs. Vecchio beamed.

\--when Stella sat down on the sofa next to me, setting down her glass of wine, cupping her chin in her hand to look at me.

"What are you doing, Ray?" she asked softly, voice pitched low so as not to be overheard by the chain gang laboring away in the kitchen.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I'm having people over for dinner, it's called being social. I can be social."

"Ray." Stella shook her head, honey-colored strands slipping a bit from the movement. "How long can you keep this up?"

I looked at Fraser, smiling wide and happy, chopping tomatoes and watching Diefenbaker play with Ante. 

"You know how long," I shrugged. "Same as I would have done for you."

"Oh, Ray," was all she said. And when she smiled at me it was happy and sad and sweet, and I knew she'd always be my golden girl, just like when we were kids, even if that didn't mean what I'd thought it meant back then. "Well, you know I'm rooting for you. And if you ever need to talk--"

"I know, Stell. I will." 

She scooted closer and I leaned my head on her shoulder, just for a moment, breathing in her sweet, familiar scent.

When I opened my eyes, Fraser was looking over at me thoughtfully.

::

So we went on, and it was good, and it also sucked beyond the telling of it, and it was good again, and even this, even this Fraser that didn't know me, that got to know me every day, even this was... was something. I wouldn't change it.

I mean, of course I'd change it, I'd change it in a hot minute, I'd give anything for him to be okay again and wouldn't think twice.

But I wouldn't change knowing him. Wouldn't change having him in my life, not in any capacity.

::

And then one morning I woke up in my own bed, for the first time in a long time. The sunlight was filtering in through the blinds and I could hear Fraser puttering around outside. I just lay there for a moment, tangled up in sheets that smelled like him, spread out blissfully warm and comfortable, if a little guilty. I remembered Fraser bundling me off to bed the night before, insisting on taking the couch for once, refusing to believe my increasingly outlandish stories about switching beds--alien abduction theories might have made an appearance at one particularly low point--until I finally broke down and let him push me down onto the edge of the, okay, pretty cushy bed I hadn't actually slept in in a few months. He knelt to take off my shoes and stood over me to help me off with my shirt, looking down at me with a soft, almost fond expression. He'd been pretty quiet all day, like he'd been thinking something over.

"I spoke to Quinn today," he said. "While you were at work."

"Oh?" I blinked up at him sleepily and he pulled the sheet and comforter over me, sitting by me like he was tucking in a child. "That's greatness, you hadn't been able to get a hold of him before. Did he say anything helpful?" 

"He did," Fraser said slowly. "He said... he said if I couldn't trust my head, perhaps it would be best to listen to my heart."

"Oh," I said, disappointed. "I thought you were hoping for some sort of remedy, like a sweat lodge or some moose whiskers or something."

"I was," Fraser said. "I am. He said he'd look into it. But Ray. Would it be such a bad thing, to live by one's heart instead of one's mind? Isn't that what people strive for?"

"Yeah, that's great if you're going to live on a hippie commune and all you've forgotten is the recipe for your favorite hand-crafted granola, Fraser, but there is important stuff in your mind." _**I'm** in your mind_ , I didn't say, but i was like he heard it anyway.

"Because when I look at you, Ray," he continued, looking down at me with that same strange, almost fond look in his face, "When I look at you, I know you. I may not remember details, but I feel trust for you. Affection. I feel what a good man you are."

"Well then your heart ain't the most reliable judge of character, Benton-buddy--"

"Yes it is, Ray. You know it is. When I look at you, I feel..."

I looked up at him, arrested, and he bent down, slowly and carefully, and brushed a kiss across my lips.

"Ask me in the morning," he said, and walked away, gently closing the door behind him.

::

So it was morning. And he was out there. I didn't know what to think. And I sure as hell didn't know what to expect. Gathering up my courage, I got up, pulled on a t-shirt and some jeans, ran a hand through my sleep-ruffled hair. Snuck into the bathroom like a thief, postponing the inevitable.

Finally, I made my way into the kitchen. Fraser was cooking and the kitchen smelled like fresh brewed coffee and sizzling pancakes. A stack of notebooks were on the kitchen table, Fraser's journal open on top, a photo album next to it open to a picture of me goofing around for the camera. 

"Uh, hey," I said, standing awkwardly in the threshold. "Good morning."

Fraser turned away from the stove and looked at me, eyes bright and curious, almost eager. "Good morning, Ray," he said. "It's good to see you."

::

Amnesiac Mountie with broken long-term memory storage moves in with lovesick Polish cop. Cue the laugh track. Cue the chick-flick sad music. Cue the ups and downs of close-quarters unrequited love. 

Or, maybe. Maybe cue a new story, one that hasn't been written yet. One we learn to write ourselves, maybe with our heads, maybe with our hearts. Definitely with the use of meticulous journal-keeping and visual aides. I don't know how it all works out.

Ask me in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Researching the idea of ante-retrograde amnesia for this prompt, I found some information indicating that people with this condition could actually learn to emotionally recognize a person, based on either positive or negative interactions they'd had. They couldn't remember the experience or the actual person, but they would get a feeling of like or dislike, kind of like an emotional memory. And I found that so intriguing.
> 
> They also found people could learn a new skill, like playing a guitar, without actually remembering any of the lessons, or the fact that they'd ever picked up a guitar before. But the skills learned were somehow cumulative, they were retained in some instinctive fashion, like the way that we store that information is different from the way we store memories.
> 
> I was struck with the idea of Fraser learning Ray like this, on instinct, by heart. And the idea combined with a literal realization of Ray's worst unspoken fear, of being unseen, invisible, literally forgotten and erased from Fraser's life, like he was just this temporary place-holder for Ray Vecchio and his time was up.
> 
> And then this happened, so. There's that. :)


End file.
